A Pox Upon Me
by sockie1000
Summary: Billy gets pinkeye. Things go downhill from there.


Title: A Pox Upon Me

Author: sockie1000

Summary: Billy gets pinkeye. Things go downhill from there.

Author's notes: Written for and beta'd by Faye Dartmouth.

This story started out as a double drabble pick-me-up for Faye back in January. She liked it and asked me to continue, which I did over the course of the last few months. Each section is 200 words.

* * *

Billy sighed. "It's just not fair."

Rick shrugged. "It happens to everyone."

"To wee lads, yes, but not to fully-grown men!"

"At least it doesn't hurt," Rick offered.

"No, but it's bloody annoying!"

"True."

"And I can't even open my eyes to behold the lovely nurses."

"Trust me, that's no loss."

"But how can I charm them if I can see them? Or even wink?"

Rick shrugged again. "Then I guess it's a good thing our covers are solid."

"It's a waste having to use our covers at all," Billy mumbled, rubbing his arms vigorously. "Of all things, having to brave a clinic for _this_!"

"It's the only way to get antibiotics," Rick offered. "Are you cold?"

Billy snorted. "In sweltering Panama?"

"I guess that's a no."

"Why do you ask?"

"Because you've been rubbing your arms all morning. I thought maybe you had a fever."

"I don't think fevers are standard issue with pinkeye," Billy replied.

"Probably not. But hey, look on the bright side…"

"What's that?"

Rick grinned. "If you had to get a childhood illness, at least it's not chicken pox."

The doctor pulled the curtain aside, frowning at Billy's test results. "Actually…"

And Billy just groaned.

* * *

Michael glanced up when they returned. "Pinkeye?"

Rick nodded. "And chickenpox."

Casey bristled. "Then I'm getting another room."

Billy made his way to the closest bed and collapsed. "You've already been exposed, Malick."

"Maybe. But I'm not taking chances."

Michael took off his glasses and stood. "And I've never had it…"

Billy sighed. "Just go."

Michael smiled apologetically and followed Casey out.

"And then, there were two," Billy murmured. He rolled his head to the side, trying to look at Rick through crusty eyes. "That is, unless you want to leave, too."

"I'll stay."

"So you've had it?"

"No. But I got the vaccine as a kid."

Billy snorted. "You kids get all the brilliant stuff. Internet… iPods… vaccines…"

"Maybe." Rick pulled a small bottle out of his pocket, tossing it to Billy. "But I'm not going anywhere near your eyes. You're on your own there."

"Fair enough."

Rick waited as Billy placed drops in his eyes, then helped the Scot climb into bed.

"You don't happen to have any chicken soup, do you?" Billy asked as he got settled in the pillows.

"Don't push your luck."

Billy grinned as he drifted off to sleep. "It was worth a shot."

* * *

He itched. _Everywhere._

His arms, his legs, his stomach, his back, his hands, his feet, even his toes…

And he was freezing. And sweating. How could he be freezing and sweating at the same time?

And the sweat just made the itching worse.

He was scratching, scratching everywhere, but nothing helped. Which just made him scratch harder. If he could just reach his…

And he was startled awake.

"Wha?"

"You were scratching," Rick answered, releasing Billy's hand.

Billy sighed and fell back on his pillow. "I've been scratching since we went to the clinic. Why the sudden concern?"

"Because if you scratch too much, you'll scar," Rick replied conversationally as he tried to put a clean white sock on Billy's right hand.

Billy pulled away. "There's nothing wrong with a few scars. They'd just make me look more dangerous. And the ladies would love them."

Rick's eyebrows peaked. "Did I happen to mention your face is starting to break out? But if you want scars there, too, well then, that's fine with me."

Billy bit his lip and furrowed his brow, looking at the socks distastefully. Then he sighed and held out his hands.

Rick grinned. "That's what I thought."

* * *

The next time Billy awoke, it was of his own volition. And for a very good reason.

Food.

He opened his eyes to see Rick pulling a large plastic container from a paper bag.

"What's that?"

"Caldo de Pollo from La Fogata. It's supposed to be the best in town."

Billy propped himself up on his elbows. "And you know this how?"

"I yelped it."

Billy's eyebrows went up.

"What?" Rick replied with a nonchalant shrug. "I had some free time."

"And you used it to procure me the best chicken soup around?"

"Kind of," Rick answered as he removed the lid, releasing a lovely aroma. "I just found it. Michael's the one who actually picked it up."

Billy sat up and allowed Rick to bolster the pillows behind him. Once settled, Rick handed him the container with a plastic spoon. Billy took a bite of the soup and sighed. "God bless that man."

Rick grinned. "You might or might not think that after you see what else he got for you."

Billy's stomach dropped. "What?"

Rick went back to the bag, pulled out a bottle, and held it up with a wide grin.

And once again, Billy just groaned.

* * *

"So are you coming out or not?"

"Preferably not."

"You can't stay in there forever, you know."

"Care to wager?"

Rick sighed. "Not really. Just come on out. I promise not to laugh."

After a moment, the bathroom door creaked open, just a hair. "You promise?"

"Promise," Rick replied solemnly.

The door widened a bit more, then finally opened all the way.

Rick bit his lip.

"You're laughing," Billy accused.

Rick blinked, his eyes watering. "No…"

"Yes, you are," Billy sulked. "I look ridiculous. Malick is the only one of us who can carry off this shade with aplomb."

Rick blinked again. And again.

Billy sighed and waved his hand dismissively. "Just go ahead. Be out with it."

Permission granted, Rick chuckled. "To quote one of my favorite movies, you look like a deranged Easter Bunny."

Billy scowled. "Thank you for bolstering my fledgling confidence there, mate."

Rick put his arm around Billy and guided him back to bed. "It's not that bad."

Billy looked at him reproachfully.

"Ok," Rick conceded. "It's bad."

Billy curled up in bed. But not before he dropped Michael's gift bottle in the trash.

"I hate Calamine lotion," he muttered before drifting off to sleep.

* * *

The next time Billy woke, it was for a very bad reason.

He threw the covers back and ran for the bathroom, barely making it in time.

A few minutes later, he flushed the toilet and leaned back against the wall, his eyes closed and his body shaking and sweating from the exertion. Not to mention from embarrassment, as Rick stood in the doorway, having apparently witnessed the whole thing.

Billy sat there, trying to catch his breath, until he heard water running. He opened his eyes just in time to see Rick handing him a wet washcloth. He took it gratefully and wiped off his face before handing it back, cringing at Rick's obvious concern.

Billy tried to smile. "It's nothing," he said, deflecting.

Rick didn't look convinced. "It sure looked like something. Maybe we should take you back to the clinic."

Billy shook his head. "I just have a queasy stomach. But if you want to rethink staying, I understand."

"I'll stay. But that's the last soup you'll get for a while."

"Fine with me," Billy agreed. "Because I hate to tell you, mate, but even the best chicken soup in Panama is rubbish the second time around."

* * *

"Here." Rick handed a small bottle to Billy as he sat down next to him on the bed. "It's time for these."

"I reckon there's nothing like chicken pox to make you forget about pinkeye," Billy commented wryly. He placed a drop in each eye before setting the bottle on the nightstand and looking over at Rick, thoughtfully.

"What?" Rick asked, his brow furrowed.

Billy tilted his head. "You're a strange one, lad. You're fine around chicken pox and vomiting, yet you won't go near a simple case of pinkeye."

"We all have our limitations."

"Aye. But apparently, you only have a few." Billy looked at Rick sincerely. "Thank you."

Rick shrugged. "I'm used to it. I had four siblings and someone was always sick. I'm just glad you don't have PMS."

"Brutal, eh?"

"You have no idea."

"Well, you do make an excellent nursemaid." Billy sank back into the bed and pulled the covers tightly up to his neck, his chills returning.

"I'd prefer it if you didn't mention that to the guys," Rick replied, getting up off the bed and settling back into his chair. "Especially Casey," he added pointedly.

Billy grinned. "Your secret is safe with me."

* * *

He felt like he was crawling on the surface of the sun.

He had to be.

Otherwise, it wouldn't be nearly this hot.

Or maybe he was in the Middle East on a mission he couldn't remember.

But the breeze blowing across him was far too humid for the desert. Which meant he was somewhere else.

He opened his eyes to see a curtain ruffling lightly.

Then he remembered. A hotel. Panama. Sick.

He looked over at Rick's chair and was surprised to see Michael sitting there instead.

"Hey," Michael said with a smile as he put down a file. "How do you feel?"

"Ok," Billy lied. "Where's Rick?"

"He went to meet his asset. He'll be back soon."

"Oh." Billy frowned. He'd almost forgotten about the mission entirely.

"In the meantime, you get me," Michael said brightly. "I hope you don't mind me airing out the place. It needed it."

"I'm sure it did," Billy murmured, frowning as he noticed that his t-shirt and boxers were soaked with sweat. He threw back the covers, surprised at how much effort it took.

"Do you need something?" Michael asked.

"I think maybe a shower."

Michael smirked. "I think maybe you're right."

* * *

"Hey, you ok in there?"

Billy could barely hear Rick's voice over the running water. But darned if he could do anything about it.

"Billy?"

Billy closed his eyes and swallowed convulsively, fighting down the bile burning his throat.

"If you don't answer, I'm coming in," Rick threatened.

Well, that would certainly be embarrassing. Billy looked at the door and considered trying to reach for it when the handle shimmied and turned. The door swung open to reveal a very concerned Rick.

"Jeez, Billy," Rick said, taking in the sight of Billy hanging over the toilet in his sweaty clothes, the water running full blast in the shower behind him. He stepped inside and turned off the now cold water. "Michael said you were taking a shower."

Billy smiled weakly. "I was detoured just a wee bit."

"Here," Rick said, reaching down and grasping him under the arm. "Let's get you back in bed."

Billy looked positively green. "I'm not sure that's the best idea."

"It's better than you sleeping on the bathroom floor."

"But…"

"I'll put a trash can by your bed. Deal?" Rick said, hauling him up.

Billy looked down at the toilet, then back at Rick. "Deal."

* * *

Billy had to admit the wastepaper basket was a brilliant idea. Not only did it save him the indignity of hanging over the toilet like some university prat who didn't know when to call it quits, but it saved him the effort of running to the bathroom entirely. Assuming he could still run at all. Right now, he wasn't sure he could walk. Or even crawl.

And Rick's grand solution allowed him the perfect out. He could lay there and act like he was being obedient instead of facing the hard truth: that the illness had thoroughly depleted his strength.

He was ashamed of that, really. Here he was, a strong man and a right capable spy, waylaid by a childhood illness. And evidently, one that was entirely preventable, too. It was as stupid as it was humiliating.

But still... it was what it was.

So Billy did what he could. He took sips of Gatorade when Rick offered it to him. He took Tylenol he knew he would never keep down. He laid completely still, eyes closed tightly, trying to hold the nausea at bay.

But mainly, he just lay there in silence, willing it all to go away.

* * *

His head hurt. Horribly. Relentlessly.

He clutched at it, pressing with such intensity as if his hands alone could squeeze the pain out of his ears.

He wanted the agony to go away, prayed for it to go away, begged God for it to go away.

But it didn't.

He whimpered, embarrassed as the sound escaped him, despite his best efforts to stop it.

He waited to hear Rick's assurances, to hear the calming words that Billy needed more than he cared to admit.

But there was nothing.

No words of encouragement. No wet cloth proffered for his brow. No cold cup of Gatorade held to his mouth like he was a helpless child.

Just… nothing.

Billy opened his eyes to slits, wincing in excruciating pain as the dim light flooded his senses. He looked over at the chair where Rick usually sat reading. But the chair was empty.

Billy looked over the rest of the room, hoping to see Rick getting a glass of water. Or Michael coming out of the bathroom. Or even Casey scowling.

Just someone to tell, someone to _make it_ _stop_.

But for the first time, Billy was alone.

And the pain kept getting worse.

* * *

Billy wasn't sure how much time had passed but gradually he became aware of voices.

"Do you think we should wake him?"

"It's worth a shot. Unless Malick wants to carry him."

"That would make my avoidance up until now somewhat pointless."

He knew it was his team, trying to decide what to do. And he really didn't care what happened as long as they left him alone.

Michael had other ideas. "Billy?" he said, shaking him.

Billy stifled a moan, the movement too much for his violently throbbing head. But his grimace signaled his awareness and Michael pressed on.

"Billy, we need to take you back to the clinic. Can you walk?"

It was such a ridiculous question Billy wanted to laugh. He wasn't even sure he could sit. But the idea of Casey carrying him like an infant made him want to try. He gave a slight nod, his eyes still closed.

He felt the covers being pulled back, then Michael's firm hands maneuvered him up to sit, then to stand. Billy breathed heavily, his body visibly shaking from the effort. Then he collapsed back onto the bed.

The last thing he heard was Michael calling Casey's name.

* * *

Billy felt movement but it took him a minute to realize what was going on. And the reality of the moment struck him with horror.

Casey was_ carrying _him.

And not in some manly, dignified, fireman's carry sort of way. But in a girly, humiliating, _in his arms _sort of way.

Billy felt his cheeks reddening. "Does this mean we're married?" he murmured, trying to deflect from the situation.

"What?" Casey asked sharply.

"You... me... a threshold..." Billy offered. He would have shrugged as well if he felt capable of it. "I thought maybe there was something you needed to tell me."

Casey snorted. "Yes. You're entirely too light. Was wasting away part of your master plan?"

Billy sighed, still not bothering to open his eyes as he continued to feel the movement beneath him. "None of this was part of my plan, I'm afraid..." His voice trailed off, the mere effort of speaking draining him of what remained of his strength.

Casey seemed to notice and sighed. "I know," he said, more gently this time. "We've got it from here, ok?"

But Billy was too tired to reply, too tired to even nod.

So instead, he just let go.

* * *

Billy felt oddly detached from his body.

Not quite like he was floating, more like he was free from sensation and pain. And after the past few hours (or maybe even days?) of non-stop fever, nausea, and blinding headaches, it was quite nice, really.

"Is it over?" he heard Michael shout, coming from somewhere in front of him.

Billy wanted to frown.

Michael didn't shout often; he was more of the proverbial calm cucumber. But he was shouting now and he almost sounded panicked.

And Michael didn't do panic.

"I think so," Casey replied, his voice nearby and equally strained. "But I'm leaving my belt in place just in case."

Belt?

"Take the next right," Rick said urgently, also from in front of him. "The hospital will be three miles down on the left."

Hospital?

And then Billy slowly came back to his senses.

And the all-encompassing pain returned, along with the nausea and chills. And he realized something was wedged in his mouth, something that was wide and tasted like leather. And he was lying on his side. And everyone sounded so worried...

And then he understood.

They were long past the point where the clinic could help him.

* * *

He was moving again but this time, he wasn't in Casey's arms. Thankfully.

Instead, he was lying flat, probably on a gurney, and probably at the ER. But that was the most his tenuous consciousness could grasp.

"What do we have?" a man asked as the gurney stopped and Billy heard the unmistakable snap of latex gloves being pulled on.

"Male, 36, presented with pinkeye and chicken pox five days ago," a second voice answered.

Five _days_?

"What else?" the first voice asked, the one Billy presumed to belong to the doctor.

"His fever's been high since this morning," Rick answered quickly, sounding every bit as young as he was and clearly worried. "He's been vomiting for a few days. Now he won't open his eyes and he had a seizure on the way here."

"How long did he seize?"

"Four minutes, seventeen seconds." That was Casey. Cold, clinical, almost detached. But Billy knew better.

He felt something pressing inside his ear, then it beeped loudly.

"103.6," the second voice announced.

"Ok," the doctor said grimly. "I need you gentlemen to leave now."

"No offense, doc, but this is our friend." Finally, Michael. Decided. Defiant. "And we're not going anywhere."

* * *

Time was lost as Billy drifted in and out of consciousness.

He was barely cognizant of what was happening and was vaguely surprised every time he was aware enough to notice something different: his clothes replaced by a hospital gown; an IV inserted into the crook of his arm; his hip sore, presumably from getting a shot he didn't remember.

None of it really bothered him.

It was all expected, given the circumstances. He didn't know what was wrong, but he knew he was in good hands. The hospital staff was probably good, too, or his team would have dragged him somewhere else already.

So Billy drifted, unconcerned, until he heard Casey singing.

Billy tried to furrow his brow and would have opened his eyes if the thought of light penetrating his skull hadn't sounded like the worst idea ever.

He was rolled onto his side. Someone braced his shoulders. Someone else pinned his legs in place. Firm hands grasped his wrists.

Billy knew those hands. The were average sized, but strong and calloused in all the right places for someone used to holding a gun.

Michael's hands.

And yet, Billy still didn't understand.

Until the needle pierced his spine.

* * *

The pain was instantaneous.

Billy tried not to move but the agony was too intense.

He bucked violently but Michael had a concrete grip on his wrists. His shoulders were held tightly, virtually immobilizing his upper body. And his legs simply didn't budge at all. Billy knew the only person he knew who had that kind of strength was Casey.

Confident Casey would keep him pinned down, Billy channeled every ounce of energy, every drop of anguish, every last bit of frustration into his legs.

And his friend did not fail him, his vice-like grip keeping Billy from injuring himself.

"Almost done," the person holding his shoulders said, and it took Billy a moment to realize the voice belonged to Rick. It sounded off, tense and slightly wavering. But Billy had to hand it to the kid, he was holding it together.

He'd have to remember to thank them all once this was over.

And finally, it_ was_ over.

"You did it," Rick said, relieved.

"Good job," Michael encouraged, squeezing his wrists lightly.

Casey remained silent, only slightly loosening his grip on Billy's still trembling legs.

And as the world faded out, Billy realized none of them had let go.

* * *

Time passed.

During his brief periods of consciousness, he was aware of very little. A dimly lit room. The tug of an IV. Voices; some familiar, some not, all speaking in hushed tones.

But mainly, he was aware of pain. Incessant, agonizing pain.

He clutched his head tightly even though he knew it wouldn't help. Nothing helped.

At times, he thought he might scream. At other times, he was fairly certain he had.

He was sure he would be embarrassed about it later, but right now, he didn't care. Because when the pain became too much to bear, when he no longer knew what he was screaming, or if he was even screaming at all, someone would appear. And his IV line began to burn. He embraced it; the acid eating up his arm giving him something to focus on besides the never-ending pounding in his head.

And then the medicine would begin to work.

It didn't take away the pain; it seemed like nothing would. But it made him go to sleep, which he welcomed with open arms even as his eyes remained tightly screwed shut.

And he would drift off, the comforting voices of his friends his lullaby.

* * *

Then early one morning, Billy woke up.

He glanced over and saw Michael and Casey slumped in their chairs, sleeping soundly.

Billy looked around the hospital room, confused, trying to recall what happened.

Then he remembered.

Pinkeye, chickenpox, then the God-awful nausea and headaches. Those memories were clear. Others were more hazy: a failed attempt to shower, Michael asking him to stand, Casey _carrying_ him.

He really hoped that last one was a hallucination.

But none of them told him what he really wanted to know- why he was here in the first place.

The door opened and Rick came in, coffee cups stacked three high in his hands.

"Hey! You're awake!" he whispered, grinning.

"Aye. It appears so." Billy grimaced at the graveley sound of his voice. "But I'm at a loss as to what happened."

"Oh, that." Rick looked uncomfortable and glanced at Michael and Casey, who were still out. "Well, you got encephalitis."

Billy's brow piqued. "Encephalitis?"

"Your brain swelled."

"From pinkeye?"

"Actually, from chicken pox."

Billy looked dubious.

Rick shrugged. "Apparently, it happens. But the important thing is you're in good hands."

Billy looked at his team, surrounding him, and nodded. "Of that, I've no doubt."

* * *

After the ODS' initial jubilation and relief of Billy's waking, things settled into a routine as he healed. Rick took mornings, Michael afternoons, and Casey nights. ("If I have to listen to Billy's non-stop gabbing, I'll kill someone. Probably him.")

For Billy's part, the headaches began to recede and with them, the clouds that covered his mind.

And he remembered everything.

To say he was embarrassed was an understatement; he was mortified.

On the second afternoon, he simply couldn't stand it anymore. He cleared his voice and looked over at Michael, who was lost in a report. "I'm sorry."

Michael glanced up. "What?"

"I'm sorry," Billy reiterated quietly. "For getting sick, for winding up here... for everything."

Michael took off his glasses and sighed. "You don't have anything to be sorry about. You got sick. It happens. If anyone should be sorry, it's me."

"You?"

Michael nodded. "I was watching you and I dropped the ball. I didn't notice you were burning up or taking forever in the shower. If Rick hadn't come back..."

"But he did," Billy interjected gently, his voice free from condemnation. "No harm done."

"Well," Michael smiled weakly, accepting the implicit forgiveness, "thank God for that."

* * *

Casey arrived and Michael left. It reminded Billy of the changing of the guard, only without pomp, circumstance, and silly hats. The silence, however, was about the same.

Billy was accustomed to Casey's glares and viewed them as a challenge. He often made bets about how long it would take to break Casey's resolve and get him to either talk or roll his eyes. Billy's record was four seconds, a feat he was quite proud of and one not even Rick, in his early days naivete, had managed to break.

But tonight, Casey's look was less of an icy glare and more of an uncomfortable avoidance. Billy gave up on small talk and closed his eyes to sleep, only to pop them back open a minute later.

"I can feel you watching me."

Casey remained silent.

"What is it?"

Casey pursed his lips, then spoke quietly. "I'm sorry."

Billy sighed. "Not you, too."

"I wanted nothing to do with you," he said guiltily.

"Neither did Michael."

"That doesn't make it right."

"No, but it makes you a human being."

"Who bailed on his friend-"

"Who carried his friend when he needed it," Billy interrupted firmly. "And _that's_ what matters."

* * *

The next morning, Billy was discharged with orders to rest for a few days before heading home. They went back to the hotel where Billy quickly settled into his room.

He felt fragile as his mates fussed over him, each in their own way. Rick hovered, anticipating his needs; Casey voluntarily stayed in the room with him, never mentioning germs; and Michael pretended to read but spent most of his time covertly watching Billy's every move.

Finally he couldn't stand it anymore and sent Michael and Casey out to get soup.

"I didn't think you'd ever want that again," Rick mused once they left.

Billy sighed. "I don't."

Rick look confused. "Then why-"

"Because they were smothering me with good intentions, that's why."

Rick frowned. "Is that what you think about me, too?"

"What? No." Billy shook his head, then sighed heavily. "I reckon I just want things to go back to normal."

"They will. Eventually."

Billy nodded solemnly. "I never thanked you for saving my life, did I?"

Rick squirmed. "You thanked me earlier."

"That's not the same."

"It's close enough. Besides, us, saving each other's lives..." he shrugged. "That's about as close to normal as it gets."

* * *

Several hours later, Michael and Casey returned.

"What's this?" Billy asked, taking a container from Michael.

"Fish and chips," Michael replied, taking three more containers out of the bag. "It took forever to find them so I hope they're good."

"But-" Billy started.

"But you really thought we believed you when you said you wanted soup?" Casey snorted. "We're not stupid. We knew you were trying to get rid of us."

Billy sighed. "It's just..."

Michael nodded understandingly. "I know. You're tired of being an invalid. We got it."

"Consider this meal our last act of being nice," Casey added.

"Speak for yourself, Malick," Michael said. "I still have one more treat."

"What's that?" Rick piped up.

Michael reached back into the bag. "I know how much you like having pink stuff on your face," he said slyly.

Billy glared at Rick, who shrugged innocently and grinned.

"So I got you this," Michael concluded, tossing Billy a tube of pink benzoyl peroxide. "I thought we could head to the beach this afternoon. You're way too pale. Sound good?"

Sound good?

It actually sounded wonderful. And deliciously... _normal_.

Billy looked at his friends and smiled.

"I think that sounds brilliant."

_fin_


End file.
